


After The End

by starry19



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 05:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14888390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry19/pseuds/starry19
Summary: How To Pretend universe - "At the same time, she glanced around the room, which was, of course, empty, and wondered if she was now destined to share Flynn’s deepest fear, too."





	After The End

**Author's Note:**

> For my anon who asked for more DomesticGarcy. Be careful what you wish for.

 

The first time it happened, baby Amy was five months old. 

The day had been quite normal, or what passed for normal in the Flynn household. The morning was a wild flurry of loading diaper bags and getting herself ready for her Modern History lecture at nine. Amy had been perched in her father’s lap, contentedly gnawing on his wristwatch while he attempted to send e-mails from his phone before heading out the door. 

She had paused for a second to kiss Flynn goodbye, Amy squished happily between them, then tickled Amy’s bare toes until she giggled. The sound followed her out of the house, and she got into her car, smiling. 

Morning lectures meant Flynn dropped Amy off at the sitter’s before he headed in to work. He had gone back to the NSA, though he had announced his days of intelligence gathering were over. Instead, he oversaw their local field office and did a great deal of consult work. Mostly, he kept regular hours, though occasionally he pulled all nighters, coming home in the early hours of the next day, muttering about Chechen rebels that were never where they were supposed to be.

Her class had gone well, though she had stumbled once. It still threw her every once in a while, the changes they had made to history. Dates, events, names that she could have once bet her life on, no longer mattered or were the same. 

Amy had spit pureed peaches all over Flynn that evening at dinner, and she’d laughed out loud before handing him a towel, though usually Amy ate like she was starving. Slightly concerned, she watched her daughter closely throughout the rest of the night. 

By bedtime, she was convinced Amy was coming down with a cold. Unsurprising, since day cares were full of small, usually snotty children who loved stuffing things into their mouths. 

A few hours later, she was getting into bed herself, curling into her husband’s arms, trying to remember if they had any baby Tylenol. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it, but she had learned that the second you counted on it not being necessary was when it became absolutely necessary. 

Flynn kissed her temple, her jaw, and she smiled softly, the general craziness of the day and the warmth of his body luring her to sleep.

She woke abruptly in the darkness, confused.

Then it hit her - the baby monitor. 

She sat up slightly, Flynn’s arm falling away from her. Heard what must’ve woken her up in the first place. 

She moved again, swinging her legs down. There was a sleepy murmur from the bed behind her, and she knew he wasn’t quite awake yet. 

“Amy’s coughing,” she breathed. “I’m gonna go check on her.” 

And in the next second, everything changed. 

Flynn sat bolt upright, tension practically radiating out of him. 

Before she could ask, he was gone, grabbing the gun he still kept in the bedside drawer, and sprinting out of their room. 

There was a shocked second where she sat absolutely still, and then…

Then she knew. He had told her the story, after all. And that night, that awful night, had started in just this same way. 

She felt a shiver of terrible, irrational fear lodge itself in her chest. 

“Oh, God,” she breathed, hurrying after her husband. 

She found him in the doorway to their daughter’s room, posture rigid, gun clutched in his hand, the lights flipped on. Amy’s coughing had turned into crying. 

Tentatively, she touched his back. 

He didn’t respond, and she wondered what was going on in his head. He was reliving the worst night of his life right now. God, was he even breathing? She couldn’t tell. 

But Amy couldn’t wait any longer. 

She ducked around Flynn, scooping Amy up and gently rocking her, still keeping one eye on her husband. At the same time, she glanced around the room, which was, of course, empty, and wondered if she was now destined to share Flynn’s deepest fear, too. 

Slowly, she approached him, baby in her arms. In the soft spill of light from the hall, his face looked like it was made of marble. When she stood perhaps six inches away, he sucked in a sharp breath, then, with hands that shook, he reached out and gently touched one of Amy’s chubby, flushed cheeks. 

Then he was gone, turning abruptly. 

She shushed Amy, rubbing her back, humming as her tears ebbed. 

From across the hall, she could hear the sound of retching, and she thought her heart was going to break. She needed to hold him, needed to tell him it was alright, but just now, their daughter needed her, too. 

When Amy was quiet again, she gently eased her back down into her crib, hand resting on her tiny back, measuring the space between her breaths. 

And then she went to save Flynn from his own personal hell. 

He was in the shower, steam billowing out from behind the curtains. She was fairly certain he was crying, and she suddenly lost her nerve, or wondered if she was wrong to intrude on his grief at just this moment. 

Instead, she waited for him, perched on the edge of their bed. 

She just…she had no idea what to do. She could never take the pain of Lorena and Iris away, and she knew that he honestly wouldn’t want her to. 

When Flynn emerged, looking lost and tortured and haunted, she did the first thing that popped into her head - she opened her arms. He didn’t hesitate. 

With a bit of adjusting, they lay with his head on her chest, her arms wrapped around him as tightly as she could. No one spoke, and she wondered if his English had left him temporarily. 

He was utterly rigid, every muscle drawn taut, every breath sharply precise - he was holding himself together and she wanted to weep. 

“I love you,” she whispered to him, but in Croatian. He’d taught her a few simple phrases over the years, and though she didn’t think she’d ever be able to have a real conversation with him in his native language, she knew enough for this. 

His breathing became slightly shakier. “I love you,” she whispered again. “Everything is well.”

He looked up at her, and the pain she saw took her breath away. She kissed him, softly, tenderly, deciding that words were less important at the moment. 

He kissed her back, emotion making him less careful than he usually was. Their teeth clinked together, his mouth desperate against hers. 

Later, she would find bruises from his fingertips, from how tight he had held her. In the moment, it didn’t matter. She knew - knew his need to feel alive, to assure himself that his world hadn’t been destroyed again, to have proof that she was there, too, alive and whole and well. This was…life affirming. 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, linked her hands behind his neck. He moved over her with deep, urgent thrusts, his wet hair falling into his face. 

Her climax was sudden and unexpected, and he followed her over, her name falling from his lips at the last moment. 

When he looked at her again, she recognized the person behind his eyes once more. 

He gathered her into his arms, his chest heaving beneath her cheek. 

“I’m-“ he began, but she cut him off. 

“If you tell me you’re sorry,” she told him, forcefully, “I’m going to hit you over the head with a phonebook.” 

His startled silence was…a little amused, and she was grateful for it. She pressed a kiss against his heart. She was never more grateful for the way they could leave so much unspoken. There was no need for apologies or explanations. 

“I love you,” he eventually breathed. 

And that was enough. 

She dozed lightly, restlessly, for the remainder of the night. For his part, she didn’t think Flynn slept at all. Around dawn, by silent consent, they crept out to check on Amy. 

She had rolled to her stomach, her rear in the air. She was also, adorably enough, snoring, though that just meant the poor girl had a stuffed up nose. 

No one left the house that day. 

Amy, even sick, was delighted with her parents’ undivided attention, and took her afternoon nap against her father’s chest, while he managed to finally relax enough to sleep himself. 

That night was uneventful, though Lucy was awake more than she was asleep, half her attention on the baby monitor and the other half on the man beside her. 

It didn’t happen with quite the same urgency any time after that first, awful time, but it did still happen. He never left their room armed again, but his pistol never left the drawer. 

Once, when she woke to an empty bed, she found him asleep on the floor of Amy’s nursery. 

He was trying, she knew that. And this would all ease in time. 

She hoped it was soon-ish, because apparently they were going to need to stock up on sleep. It was going to be a rarity again, in just about 8 months. 

The night she told him, his jaw dropped, and then he had grinned widely. There was no fear in his eyes, none at all, and she was so grateful for that. 

For herself, she was quite convinced this child had been conceived that night, as Flynn had fought to come back to her from his nightmares, both real and imagined. 

She chose to think of it as a sign from God. More giving, less taking away. 

Yes, their hands were going to be full. 

But so were their hearts. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
